


tale as old as time

by savingophelia (briennesbeauty)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Beauty and the Beast AU, Dark One Emma, F/F, fairytale AU, grumpy regina, hook is gay and fat btw, i came up with this idea at three am, i keep breaking the fourth wall to interrupt myself like a light-hearted fairytale lemony snicket, literally trash, robin is gaston, this is silly, three shot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 03:43:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10481325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/briennesbeauty/pseuds/savingophelia
Summary: regina mills has spent almost her whole life in the poor provincial town of storybrooke, on the edge of the enchanted forest, dreaming of adventure and freedom. when her beloved father doesn’t return from a simple trip to market, she takes her chance and sets out on her own.or, the one where i butcher beauty and the beast.





	

**Author's Note:**

> alright children, gather round. 
> 
> so i came up with this idea (read: the gaston robin part) when i was severely sleep deprived with no intentions of making this a thing. then me and my friend had a good old laugh about robin eating five dozen eggs to be roughly the size of a small canoe, and here we are.
> 
> you can thank me later.

Once upon a time, there had been a young woman named Emma Swan.

She had been born to the aristocracy, to a couple renowned for their charming nature and pure hearts. She had been raised in a castle, had wanted for nothing, and her outrageous balls were infamous throughout the land. It was said that there was not a foe she could not overcome, be it with her sword or her smile, and that there was not a maiden in the land whose heart she could not win, even if it were only for a night. 

There had been a young woman named Emma Swan, once. 

And then, one night – 

There was a storm. There was a stranger. There was a crack of lightning that split the sky. 

And then there was nothing but the Dark One. 

__

As the sun rises over the sweeping fields and crowded villages of the Enchanted Forest, Regina Mills is waking up for the thousandth time in the same old bed, staring up at the same old ceiling, with the same old feeling in her chest. Across the house, she can hear her father snoring. 

Now, at this point you may be asking yourself, _don’t I have better things to do than this?_ Or, if you’re anything like me, _shouldn’t I be sleeping right now?_ But don’t be fooled. Despite this boring beginning, this is a rather strange tale which features, amongst other things: an enchanted castle, a couple of star-crossed lesbians, a large gay man with one hand, and the adorable lovechild of a candlestick and a teapot. And if that doesn’t change your mind, I don’t know what will. 

Now, back to our bored young heroine – 

Within a few minutes she’s dressed and the bed is made – tying her long dark hair back in a braid, she grabs the same old wicker basket and is out the door. It’s a practised routine. 

Outside, the day is dawning bright and sunny, a fresh spring breeze winding through the crowded houses and ramshackle little shops of their poor provincial town. Regina climbs down the steps into their little square of garden, and further down onto the cobbled streets, the same as she did yesterday, the same as she will do tomorrow. 

As Regina makes her familiar way into the village, basket swinging over her arm, she can’t help but take out her book and carry on her chapter as she walks. She’s read it before, of course – the library in Storybrooke is not exactly extensive, despite what the name of the town might suggest – but it’s something to take her away from the narrow cobbled streets and distract her from the people whispering. 

And there are _always_ people whispering. Not a day goes by without Regina pretending not to hear the tutting of old women and the stifled giggles and glares of young girls as she passes by. They think she’s strange, Regina knows. Peculiar. 

In Storybrooke, as every little town, everyone fits together like cogs in one of her father’s clockwork toys. Ashley Boyd and her silly friends despair over faux-glass shoes in the cobbler’s window; the red-faced baker goes by with his tray like always. Robin Locksley returns from a hunting trip with his portly ‘companion’ Killian Jones, usually referred to solely by his last name, like how a man might call a dog, and in a sort of bark-like voice, like how a dog might call another dog. 

(Today’s topic of discussion between the dogs – ahem, men – how Regina is the only person in town as beautiful as Robin. Note: this is a _great_ insult to Regina’s beauty.)

Regina works in tandem with the machine, but she doesn’t quite fit in. 

It doesn’t matter to her. Every town needs it’s pariah, she supposes, carrying on her way down through the village. 

All around her people are haggling and gossiping, exchanging _good morning_ s and _good day_ s and _how is your family_ s. Regina keeps her eyes on the page, ducking under the gazebo at the well and weaving between tight-packed market stalls.

She’s just rounding the corner down to the bakery when she nearly collides head-on with five-foot-eleven of testosterone and tailored stubble. 

_Damn it_ , Regina winces, fighting the urge to groan (and not in a good way). She takes a quick step back and keeps her eyes on the floor, hoping she can just skirt around him and head on her way without too many marriage proposals. Maybe he won’t say anything. Maybe he hasn’t noticed her. She takes a breath and heads back around him and – 

“Regina!” 

Regina’s heart drops. She takes a second to compose herself, fixes on a polite smile and spins around. “Robin.” He’s standing there in front of her with the most obnoxious smirk on his face, squinting in the sunlight. “Good morning.” 

“Indeed it is, for you have had the luck to cross my path,” Robin declares theatrically, tossing his head like a distressed horse and flashing her what he must imagine to be a dazzling smile. The result is somewhere between constipated and confused. “What do you say you and I took a walk on back to the tavern and had a look at my hunting trophies? You know I won a –” 

“I would say no.” Regina replies curtly. (There are actually several words Regina would like to say, but this is a fairy tale, and there are kids reading.) Our hero manages another thin smile, shifting her basket up onto her shoulder. “Now if you please, Robin, I need to be getting home –”

“Well at least let me carry something for you!” Robin grins, and snatches her book right out of her hands. 

“Hey!” Regina glares at him, resisting the urge to grab it back and beat him to death with it. (Sorry kids.) 

Robin however, is already paging through it with disinterest. The look on his face suggests either he is illiterate, or he is experiencing trapped wind. _Probably both_ , Regina thinks, and she’s probably right. 

“How _can_ you read this drivel, Regina?” Robin wonders scathingly. _At least I_ can _read_ , she thinks, staring disdainfully at him. He is now holding the book upside down. “Where are all the pictures?”

“Some people use their imagination,” Regina snaps, snatching the book back. _You know, that thing that makes you think I’m interested in you._

“Oh, that’s not right!” Robin declares dismissively. “A woman shouldn’t be reading in the first place! Next thing you know she’ll start having _ideas_ and _opinions_ and well, your case is understandable.” Once again, he flashes that unnerving smile and a salacious wink that literally makes Regina want to set fire to his head. “Once you have a husband and children to focus on you’ll soon be back to normal.” 

Regina wrinkles her nose, and not just because of the drivel he’s spouting. “What’s the smell?”

“You mean my manly musk?” Robin asks. “I haven’t washed. It’s my natural scent.” He quirks an eyebrow. “Why? Do you find it irresistible? 

“You smell like forest.” Regina states.

Robin smirks. “I thought it might have that effect.” 

Before Regina even has a chance to question this, his hand lands – hard – on the small of her back, herding her down the path (the wrong way). “So today is your lucky day, my lady! After all, it’s not every day a girl like yourself is taken up with such a dashing hero like me –”

“It literally _is_ everyday,” Regina reminds him. “You’ve literally followed me around every day for the last –”

Thankfully, they’ve walked past a mirror hanging off a market stall and he’s become too distracted by his own reflection to listen to her. Regina takes the opportunity to escape, holing up in her garden all day, toes in the thick soil, reading and reading and reading until she forgets where she is. 

The next day, unfortunately, Robin is more outright. 

He corners her on her way back from the library, swaggering up (nearly tripping over his own feet) and steadying himself with a hand against the wall behind her. 

“Robin.” Regina greets flatly. 

Robin tosses his head – _really, what is it with that?_ Regina doesn’t know this, but I can assure you, reader, he’s trying to toss his luxurious hair like a prince in a storybook. Unfortunately, to do that you need to actually _have_ luxurious hair. Otherwise, as Robin is not quite learning, you end up with what looks like an over-dramatic neck spasm. 

“Well, Regina, today is the day all your dreams come true!” He announces, loud enough for everyone to hear. 

Regina tries very hard not to scowl. “What do you know of my dreams?”

“Plenty!” Robin grins. “Here, picture this.” He thrusts his arm out violently, as if setting a scene. “A rustic hunting lodge, my latest kill roasting on the fire, and my pretty little wife massaging my feet while the little ones play on the floor with the dogs.” He notices the look on her face, and apparently takes it for confusion, not murderous hatred, and clarifies - “We’ll have seven.”

Regina lifts an unimpressed eyebrow. “Dogs?”

“No, Regina!” Robin seems frustrated she isn’t as into this as he is. “Strapping boys like me!”

“Oh, God.” Regina remarks flatly. “Wow. Imagine that.”

Robin cocks his head like a dog, eyes widening a tad unnervingly. “And do you know who my little wife will be?”

“I don’t know.” Regina huffs heavily and rolls her eyes. “Let me think.”

“It’s you, Regina!” 

“ _Goodbye_ , Robin.” Regina says firmly, stalking off as fast as she can. 

Robin watches her go, smile plastered all over his face. “She wants me.” 

Who he’s talking to, I don’t know.

Some way up the path back to her house now, Regina is trying to compose herself. This entails what can only be described as _storming_ up the path, hands curled into fists, dreaming of some land far away, where people don’t whisper about how strange you are for having thoughts, and there are no brainless pinecones that stalk you until you give in. 

_Madame Locksley, can you imagine?_ She scoffs to herself, climbing back up the little steps to the house. _Me, wife to that boorish, brainless_ – Regina huffs violently, letting the door swing shut behind her as she drops her basket onto the kitchen table. 

Once again, it seems, nothing has changed. 

__

The weeks go by in Storybrooke. 

Day turns to night and back to day, the flowers grow, spring pushes into summer, and with summer comes Henry Mills’ annual trip to the Misthaven Market. It’s the biggest merchants fair this side of the Enchanted Forest, the one place where his hand-made toys and trinkets sell for more than a bronze coin apiece. 

As she does every year, Regina has groomed and watered Rocinante, their trusty family horse, and packed his saddlebags with fresh bread and apples to keep her father going on the long journey east. Around midday Henry finishes loading his wares into a pack and steps out into the dazzling sunlight to take the reins from his daughter. 

“Well, it’s about time I’m off,” He announces, and Regina nods, leaning forward to pull him into a hug, her chin tucked over his shoulder. A light breeze toys through her dark hair and his wiry greying curls. 

“You take care of yourself, Daddy,” She tells him firmly, with a little squeeze. “And I’ll be waiting right here for you when you come back.” 

“Two days time,” Henry confirms. He smiles, pulling pack from the hug and stroking back a dark strand of her hair. “Is there anything you’d like me to bring back for you?”

“You ask the same thing every year,” Regina says, feeling a smile playing over her lips. 

“And you give the same answer every year.” Her father matches her smile, shaking his head. His brown eyes are full of fond disbelief. “Is there nothing else you’d want?”

“No.” Regina says lightly. “Just the rose.” 

Henry has long since learnt not to question it. 

Another hug and he’s off on his way. Regina stands in the garden, leaning over the fence, watching him go until both man and horse disappears into the village crowd, and beyond. 

__

Indeed, Rocinante returns in two days. 

Her father does not. 

“What’s going on?” Regina demands blearily, running outside, down the steps. Her heart is pounding. All around the streets beyond her little square of garden, villagers are gathered, whispering and talking, voices hushed and heavy. She’d been woken up by the noise – some kind of crashing and commotion right outside her window. And now... 

She stares around the garden in confusion. It is just approaching dawn, she supposes, the sky above blazing orange, streaked with the first rays of sun. Beneath her bare feet, the grass is wet with dew. “What’s happening?” 

And then she sees. 

As she steps down onto the cobbled street, the small cluster of villagers parts. Behind them, anxiously pawing at the ground, is Rocinante. His mane is tangled with burrs, and there is a long scratch along the glossy hide of his neck. There is no saddle, no pack of bread and apples. 

Regina hurries to him immediately, pushing through people to touch his neck and lead him back with her. Her stomach churns, heart sinking like a stone. She can’t think straight. “Where is he?” She asks, glancing around her at the villagers. “Where’s my father?”

“We’re sorry, Regina,” Someone – the baker’s son – touches her arm gently. 

She shakes her head, refusing to understand. 

Another man, one of Robin’s hunter friends, stares at her with sympathetic eyes. When he speaks, his voice is soft, like he is approaching a dying animal. “He didn’t come back.” He pauses, harsh orange light of sunrise shifting over his face. “We’ll send out search parties to look for the body –”

“No.” Regina shakes her head again, more firmly this time. “ _No_. My father isn’t dead!”

“Regina –”

“He’s not,” Regina insists savagely, staring around at the sea of solemn faces. “I can feel it.” She pauses, breathless. “Just give me a few days. A few days to find him, and then you can do whatever you want –”

“Regina!” A familiar over-theatrical voice booming from crowd makes her heart drop into her stomach. _Damn it_. Regina resists the urge to punch him as he pushes through the crowd, shaking his head to let the sunlight gleam off his hair. Robin Locksley, shirt half unbuttoned to show off his frankly disgusting chest hair, all bravado and fake-concern. 

Regina glowers at him. “This doesn’t concern you, Robin –”

“My lady has suffered a grievous sleight!” Robin declares, throwing his arm out in – _agony?_ Regina wonders. _Is he trying to look pained? Constipated? Who knows._ – and unwittingly hitting Jones in the prominent belly. “I will not stand for this!”

Robin strides forward, hissing at Jones – now clutching his stomach – to clear a stage for him in front of the crowd. Little does he know, he has just given Regina an idea. “ _I_ shall brave the dangers of the dark forest! I shall ride out to search for my lady’s poor father, and I shall –”

“Robin,” Regina warns, wincing. “I really didn’t want to do this.” 

Robin pauses his monologue for a second, frown of confusion coming over his face. 

And Regina takes the opportunity to whack him in the stomach with all the strength she can muster. 

While Robin reels in shock (and the crowd try to stifle laughs at seeing the _intimidating specimen_ whining about a wound afflicted by a woman who barely clears five three), Regina makes use of the distraction, leading Rocinante back into the garden and hurrying inside to prepare. 

Within minutes she is dressed and packed. Fortunately for her, Robin is still waxing poetic about his ‘wound’ in the street with Jones scrabbling to stroke his brow and rub his shoulders, so nobody really pays her much mind when she returns to hastily saddle the horse.  
She sets off by the time the sun comes up. 

__

(And while our brave heroine embarks on her perilous quest to find her father, the self-professed ‘intimidating specimen’ she has just beaten up finds himself sitting in a chair in the warm orange glow of the tavern. Jones is rubbing his shoulders and trying to give a pep talk while he sulks. 

We hate to interrupt the story at such a crucial moment, but we feel it necessary for you to know that after a few rounds and some pity compliments, Robin Locksley declares that he has ‘biceps to spare’, and somewhere in a forgotten castle the woman who was once called Emma Swan is laughing. Hard. 

And now on with the story.)

__

It’s cold and dark under the press of jagged-branched trees, everything you’d expect from a place called _the dark forest_. Despite the fact the sun had come up while Regina and Rocinante raced down the little cobble path out of town, the press of trees soon block out the light. 

The path through the forest isn’t so much a path as it is a line of trampled-down roots and brambles, slightly less overgrown than the rest of the woods. Regina is breathless and determined as she clings to Rocinante’s reins, heart pounding. The wind tears through her hair, stings her cheeks. 

She is so determined to find her father, so caught up in wondering where he is and what happened to him that she doesn’t even realise how strange it is when dry roots and dirt give way to snow that crunches under the horse’s hooves.  
It is the second day of July. 

__

She’s been riding for hours now it seems, and she can scarcely breathe from the cold. 

Every time she ihales feels like she’s breathing broken glass, and every breath out is misty. Her fingers are beginning to turn numb on the reins, but beneath her Rocinante is warm and if she shifts just like hat she can feel the animal’s steady heartbeat beneath her palm. It’s a small comfort, but it lets her know she’s not alone, and that they’re still alive. 

When she dressed this morning she was in such a rush, and despite the early hour, the air was already turning warm. She only thought to button on a thin cloak, more floral embroidery than warmth. Then, that was fine. Now though, she’s shivering and wishing she’d thought to bring some gloves. 

All around, the trees are dark and jagged, hunched over or trailing broken branches through the dirty snow. Thorns and brambles poke up and crisscross the road, dusted with frost. The easy breeze from this morning rattles through the shrubbery and whistles through the trees. The sound of it is low and mournful. 

Every eerie, foreboding trope is there in that forest, crowded either side of the path. 

(It’s quite an impressive feat, really.) 

It’s maybe past midday by the time the most foreboding trope turns up – it’s hard to say really, with the branches overhead blocking out the sun. (That visual, surprisingly, is not said trope.) 

Rocinante has been trotting along at a steady pace for a while, picking a path through the shrubs and snow, when he stops abruptly, pawing the floor with a nervous hoof. Regina’s heart jumps into her throat and she grips the reins tighter. “What?” She manages to ask, words leaving her mouth in a puff of cold smoke. “What is it, Rocinante?”

He whinnies loudly (because of _course_ the beautiful heroine can talk to the horse), and Regina realises he’s seen something she hasn’t. 

Her breath catches in her throat, but she forces herself to be brave, taking a steadying breath and climbing gently down off the horse. Her boots land in the crisp dirty snow with a crunch. Still holding Rocinante’s reins and murmuring soothing things to him, Regina walks further down the path until she sees the cause for his distress. 

Lying in the snow, half open for his lovingly-made toys and trinkets to spill out, is her father’s pack. 

The sight of it hits Regina like a blow to the stomach (Robin, a few miles behind her, is still whining about that, by the way) and she can’t help the way her hand flutters to her mouth. _That doesn’t mean anything_ , she tells herself. _Rocinante could have got scared and thrown it off, or he could have had to leave it for speed, or..._

Regina takes a few curious steps forward when she sees something else – a half-eaten apple, red and shiny and unmistakably grown from the tree outside her bedroom window – lying in the snow. 

_No._

Suddenly filled with a new sense of determination, Regina swings back up onto Rocinante’s back, urging him forward. She’s come too far to stop now. 

__

Just when Regina is beginning to think all hope is lost, the overgrown path beneath Rocinante’s hooves starts to flatten again, gradually turning from scrubby underbrush to cleared dirt to laid flagstones. His hooves make a satisfying _clopping_ noise against the stone – it is the only sound for miles. 

For a while it makes Regina even more uncertain, nerves knotting and bunching in her chest. Then the trees become sparser and sparser until they fall away entirely and then, suddenly, rising up from the horizon – 

As if from nowhere, the biggest, most _exquisite_ building Regina has ever seen in her whole life is suddenly silhouetted against the pale blue sky. She can’t help but gasp. There are turrets and towers and walkways high up in the sky. There are spires and gargoyles and crenellations. There are twisty walls and stained-glass windows, and it’s like nothing she’s ever seen before. _Like a palace from a storybook_. 

She’s read about castles like this a hundred times, but she never thought in a million years she’d ever see one. How could it be possible to live all her life a mere road away and never know this existed? Unless... _Maybe there’s a good reason_. 

Regina grits her teeth and urges Rocinante on. 

The closer they get to the looming castle, the smaller she feels, but her heart is beating nearly out of her chest with such force that she’s sure, she’s _sure_ her father has to be somewhere inside. 

Before she knows it, she’s riding through the gardens at the front of the castle, a maze of hedges that were probably neat a fifty years ago, overgrown rose bushes dropping petals all over the floor, cracked statues swamped with moss, empty flowerbeds. Regina swallows hard as she takes it all in. 

In the next few minutes there is more staring, more breathlessness and more once-beautiful landscaping falling into disrepair - you get the idea. What Regina does not know, however, is that a few metres off she is being whispered about (yes, _again_. It seems to be a talent of hers.) by a teapot and a candlestick, who were previously a married couple, peering out a window. 

Well. I did warn you this was going to get strange. 

“Who is she?” The candlestick, whose name is technically David but in the interests of sounding mysterious will henceforth be referred to as Lumiere, whispers. His gilded-iron face twists in confusion. 

The teapot, who’s watercolour face bears a similar expression, wishes she could shake her head. “I don’t know.”

“How did she even get here?” Lumiere wonders. Beyond the window, the girl is still riding through the old gardens, tatty embroidered cloak pulled tight around herself. “Not a soul comes close in decades, and suddenly we have two in one week? Something’s not right.” 

“No,” The teapot – formerly known as Snow – agrees. She peers out at the girl, and for half a heartbeat, she dares to hope. “She’s beautiful, though. Do you think...” 

“What?”

“You don’t think maybe...” Snow trails off with a little sigh, suddenly feeling silly. God knew most of the _household_ here had given up on hope a long time ago. And most of those scorned her for still believing at all. “Maybe she’s _the one_?” 

“Snow...” The candlestick says heavily. They have been through this before. 

“I know.” Snow says, still staring out at their beautiful, bedraggled intruder. “I know.” 

“Still...” Lumiere begins, a hint of mischief in his voice. Snow turns to her former husband. She knows that look. “It couldn’t hurt if we unlocked the door now, could it?”

__

 

Down in the garden, Regina has dismounted Rocinante, reluctantly tied his reins to one of the crumbling pillars and makes her way up the sweeping stone staircase to the castle doors. 

A huge brass knocker is set into one, carved in the shape of a swan. Uncertain, Regina lifts on hand and tries it, knocking once, twice, three times. The noise bounces off decaying marble and stone but there’s no reply. Tentatively, Regina reaches again for the knocker and gives the door a little push. 

It opens. With a long, clichéd creak, it opens. 

Heart in her throat, Regina pushes gently and slips inside, wondering how her day had gone so rapidly downhill. Inside, she is hit with a wave of warm air, which suggests there has to be _someone_ living here, making sure the castle is heated. 

Her boots click softly against the marble floor and she gapes – she’s standing in the most ornate room she’s ever seen (despite the dust floating around) and she thinks it might only be a foyer. In front of her is a grand carpeted staircase. The ceiling is high above her head, carved into fancy patterns and gilded like the polished mahogany furniture lining the walls, which are hung with paintings.

A furrow appears between her brows as her gaze catches on one in particular – it’s hanging just above what she thinks is a grand piano, in a gold frame. It shows a handsome man and a beautiful woman and a little girl with unruly blonde hair, sitting around an armchair and reading from a book. _Once Upon a Time_ , she thinks she book reads. 

But she’s getting distracted. 

Regina steps forward and clears her throat loudly. 

“Hello?” She calls. Her voice echoes off the walls and comes back to her. Still, there is no repose. “Hello? Is anyone here?” 

Regina walks further into the room, peers down a darkly-shadowed hallway to her left. Instead of going down there, she hurries up the stairs. The landing she finds is just as deserted as the foyer, and just as filled with ornate clutter. 

“Hello?” Regina tries again, staring up over her head at the high sculpted ceiling. “Is anyone here? I’m looking for my father,” 

Nothing. No response. Still, there’s a feeling, a _feeling_ in her gut telling her she has to keep going. So keep going she does – Regina explores corridors and galleries, tries doors that are locked tight and climbs staircase after staircase. Why one person needs so many stairs, she doesn’t know. _Exercise maybe._

After god knows how long, Regina finds herself in a strange, cold part of the castle. The walls are bare stone here, mostly unadorned and when she breathes her breath mists in front of her like it did out in the snow-dusted forest.

“Hello?” She calls, for the hundredth time, the word sharp with frustration. Her voice echoes and echoes. 

When she turns the next corner, Regina is faced with yet _another_ set of stairs – these ones steep and narrow stone, spiralling up what she assumes is one of the towers. Glancing behind her, she can’t help but feel like something is about to happen. No going back now. Regina takes a deep breath and starts to climb. 

The stairs are steep and the climb is harsh, but she barely notices. It’s worth mentioning, if you hadn’t noticed before, that Regina Mills is not your _usual_ fairytale heroine. Nor is she a hipster, as the previous sentence may have suggested. (My apologies). 

No, Regina Mills, in spite of her big brown eyes and love of fiction, is no singing placid princess. Frankly, the girl has a short temper made shorter by years of fending off a certain hunter and ignoring whispers and rumours.

So after spending what feels like hours roaming a not-so-abandoned castle with no results, Regina is beginning to get frustrated. Her heart is pounding and the feel of it in her chest is sharp and dangerous. She really does think that if she doesn’t get a reply by nightfall she might punch something. 

Luckily, her borderline anger problems are on her side just about now – it’s that fire in her veins that makes her so determined to find him, to find him and grab him and take him home and prove everyone wrong. So she climbs. She climbs and climbs and climbs and rues the day Henry Mills ever heard of the bloody Misthaven Market. 

After maybe a dozen stairs she passes what looks like an empty dungeon cell, barred with iron set deep into the walls, and swallows hard. 

And after dozen more she passes the cell which contains her father. 

“Daddy!” Regina can’t help but shout, heart nearly stopping when she sees him. 

She races up the last few steps to close the distance, barely breathing. He’s slumped on a crude wooden bench pressed up against the wall, his torn and patched cloak draped over him like a blanket, but he jerks up when he sees her, dark eyes wide. 

“Regina!” He cries, and his voice is hoarse. 

Regina hurries to the cell, wraps her hands around the bars. They’re icy cool to touch. She pulls herself close, reaching out to grasp his hand when he stumbles over to her. She scans him quickly, taking a visual inventory, trying to figure out if he’s hurt. 

“I’m so glad you’re alright, Daddy –” Regina swallows hard, clutching his hand tight through the bars. He’s cold, but her warmth soon starts to leach into his skin “Are you injured? What happened, who’s keeping you here?” 

Suddenly, he looks very afraid. 

“You can’t be here,” He murmurs, almost inaudible. “You shouldn’t be here.” 

“What?” Regina pauses, gripping his hand tighter. She doesn’t understand. “Daddy, what’s going on? Talk to me, and I’ll find a way to get you out of here.” 

“No – no –” Henry shakes his head. “That doesn’t matter now, sweetheart. I’ll be alright. But you have to go, _right now_.” His warning voice takes on a hint of panic, brown eyes boring right into hers. “If she finds you she’ll keep you here too, she won’t let you leave – Regina, please, you have to go –”

“Who?” Regina demands, confused. Fear twists through her stomach. “Who will?” 

“The –”

“ – _Dark One_.” A voice finishes. 

Ice spills down Regina’s spine and she freezes, fingers still entwined with her father’s. Breath caught in her throat, she glances up to meet his eyes and finds only fear and anger there. She can hear someone breathing behind her. Slowly, she lets go of his hands and steels herself before slowly, _slowly_ turning around. 

A few stairs above them, a figure stands half-cloaked in shadow. Regina can’t see their face, but they look human enough, even if the dark leather and strange gloves they wear are a little odd. Still, their position looming above her and the authority in that voice was anything to go on... 

And the fact that they went about calling themselves _the Dark One_ , Regina thought scathingly. _That too_.

Still, Regina looks back at her father cowering in his prison and refuses to be afraid. She’s come too far for that now. She rolls her shoulders back, raises her chin and stares at where she thinks the figure’s head would be. 

“Who are you?” Regina demands, forcing her voice to stay strong. “What do you want with my father?” 

“Your father is a theif,” The voice states lazily. 

“That’s absurd!” Regina snaps, enraged by the assured statement. “My father is a hard-working and honest man who’s never done anyone wrong his whole life!” 

The figure – the Dark One – laughs in her face. “Your father _stole_ from me.”

“Nonsense.” Regina shakes her head, scoffing, and turns back to her father. She blinks, a little thrown by the heavy look in his eyes, the way his shoulders curls forward. “Daddy?” 

He doesn’t reply. Instead, Regina turns to look back at the shadowed figure of the supposed Dark One as they – no, _she_ , Daddy had said _she_ – takes a step down. Still, her face is hidden and her voice is a practised empty drone. 

(Literally. This particular Dark One can often be found in front of the mirror trying out different threats and eyebrow raises. Well. I never said she was cool.) 

“He stole one of my most prized roses.” 

Regina’s stomach tightens.

She feels her anger drop away, turn to guilt and regret that bubbles under her skin and makes her want to scratch something. 

“I was lost,” Henry says hoarsely. “I wasn’t sure I’d ever make it to Misthaven but I promised you... Every year, I promised...” 

“Daddy...” Regina breathes, stomach churning and turning over and over at the sight of him hunching there, so defeated, so small, so _old_... _This isn’t right_. 

Suddenly, there’s a lump in her throat and she knows what she has to so. _This isn’t right_. 

“He stole that rose for me,” Regina declares suddenly, taking a step forward, a step closer to the Dark One. Her eyes search through the shadows, appealing to whatever beast is waiting in the darkness. “If you must punish anyone, punish me.”

“No!”

She ignores her fathers shout, shaking her head and trying hard to find the Dark One’s eyes. There is no second thought, no doubt in her mind. She steels herself. “Don’t listen to him. He’s old, he doesn’t know what he’s saying. It’s my fault. I’ll take his place.” 

“Regina,” Her father pleads. “Don’t do this.” 

“Dark One,” Regina says, through gritted teeth. “Please.”

The Dark One waits a minute (because, like me, this dramatic little shit likes to draw out the tension, both sexual and otherwise. But we’ll get to that later.) before replying, airily – “Oh, it’s nothing to me. I just need one prisoner. It was _one_ rose, after all.” She pauses, and Regina swears she can hear her own heart beating. “You can decide amongst yourselves.” 

“Regina,” Her father says, voice weary and pained. “Please.”

Regina turns back around, and it takes everything in her not to let all her defences melt back down at the sight of him. As if in a dream, she goes to him, eyes searching his while her their hands meet around the bars. “Daddy...”

“No, Regina, don’t.” Henry shakes his head. There is only one window in the cell, thin and high and set deep in the wall, and it washes down over him in a pale light that makes him look far older than he is. “I know you want a chance to be a hero, but you have your whole life ahead of you. I’ve lived mine.” He smiles sadly. “You’ve always been so good to me, child. Do this one last thing, and live your life.” 

Slowly, gently, Regina nods. 

“Dark One,” She says, and if this were any other situation she’d feel a bit silly, addressing someone like that. “May I have a moment to say goodbye to my father?” She pauses, and clenches her jaw. “Please?” 

For a moment there is only silence, and then Regina is hit with a gust of cold air and a strange tingly feeling, and with a long low groan, the rusty iron-barred door to the cell swings open. “Be quick.” The Dark One says. “Once those doors shut, they will _not_ open again.” 

Regina stares from the open door to the shadow of the Dark One on the stairs, and swallows. _Okay. Magic. That explains a lot._ She forces out a _thank you_ before she throws herself inside the cell and into her fathers arms. She squeezes him tight against her, closing her eyes and breathing in his smell and feeling his wiry grey curls scratch her cheek, maybe for the last time. 

“I love you, Daddy,” Regina breathes against his shoulder. There is a beat. A moment of silence. She breathes in, her stomach twists. _Now_. “And I’m sorry.” 

Before he can react, she’s pulling away, pushing him hard through the open door and hurrying to grab the bars and slam them shut after her. The hinges creak. The lock clicks into place. A small sound, but Regina hears it loud as thunder. 

It all happens in a matter of seconds. 

Regina hangs back in her cell, breathless, staring between her father – standing shocked on the landing, brown eyes wide – and the shadow of the Dark One. Her chest rises and falls heavily with each breath. “Goodbye, Daddy.”

__

Regina has been sitting in the cell for maybe an half an hour before the candlestick arrives. 

She’s still reeling from the shock of the day – to think, she woke up this morning in her little bed in their little house in Storybrooke – and her goodbye with her father, and the way the shadowed figure of the Dark One left her there with nothing more than a tight mutter of _stupid girl_ under her breath. 

She’s still reeling, so forgive her if she freaks out a little. (She does.) 

She has been huddled on the crude wooden bench under the window, cloak wrapped around her like a blanket, thinking of ways to escape when she hears the whisper. At first it’s so low and hushed she thinks she’s imagined it. But then it comes again, words she can’t quite make out, somewhere outside the cell. 

Regina tenses. 

Could this be another prisoner? The Dark One? Some foul denizen of black magic? 

Cautiously, she throws off the cloak and picks up a sizeable rock from the floor. “Who’s there?” She calls, after a moment of silence. There is no answer but the dripping of water somewhere in the distance. Regina clears her throat. “Who’s there?”

The voice comes again, and she realises it’s low down, close to her feet. Frowning, Regina stands up and strides closer to the bars, peering around the edge. 

There is a candlestick, wrought in the shape of a little man with a handsome placid face, _walking_ up to the bars. 

It smiles charmingly, does a little bow, and announces, “My name is –”

He does not, however, get to finish his statement. Regina, who is not well versed in the courtesy of talking to candlesticks, shrieks and hurls the rock at him. 

“Hey!” The candlestick yelps indignantly, hopping back as the rock clips him in the – head? Oblivious to Regina’s wide-eyed stare, he rubs the wound with one of his candle holders, as a real man would use an arm. “Now that’s not very nice,” 

Regina screams again, whirling around a picking up the wooden stool from the cell floor. She raises it defensively. 

“No!” The candlestick winces, holding up a candle holder to sheild his face. “Don’t do that! Jesus. You’re a violent one.” 

“You can talk!” Regina exclaims, still clutching the stool up in front of her. 

The candlestick sighs theatrically. “Of course I can talk.” He cocks his head. “So let’s cut the senseless _attacks_ and start again, shall we?”

Regina stares at him, mildly traumatised. 

"Sorry," She tells him, sheepishly. After a second, she lowers the stool. 

“My name is Da – Lumiere.” He announces, with a smile and another little bow. He turns sideways and slips through the bars, small enough to hop right through. He holds out a candle holder like a hand for a shake. “What’s yours?” 

“Regina,” Regina says, fairly certain she’s dreaming. She climbs to her knees so she can shake the candlestick’s – hand? She’s trying to remember whether or not she’s read anything about talking household objects, but all she can remember is something silly about a lamp who lived in the forest and some pixie dust. Nothing helpful.

“What a beautiful name,” The candlestick says, letting her hand go. “Don’t worry, that wasn’t a come-on. I’m a married man. Not that you would _know_ – my wife’s late. I told her to meet me here ten minutes ago, but there you go.” 

He tells her all this very casually and seriously, as if this is a totally normal situation and one of Regina’s legitimate worries in day to day life is getting hit on by stray pieces of furniture. Regina just nods, too far gone to even think of questioning the fact that the candlestick is married. She is definitely dreaming. 

The wife turns out to be a teapot. 

Regina doesn’t really know what she was expecting, to be honest. 

Like her husband, the teapot can talk and hop about and pay Regina very strange compliments. Honestly, she doesn’t even know why this is noteworthy by this point. Once she’s turned up, the teapot and the candlestick have a little debate like any other old married couple and Regina sits on the cell floor and watches, thinking that maybe she bashed her head on the ride here. (She didn’t.) 

After a while of this, the teapot – steps? – back up to Regina and smiles. “Right, dear. Let’s get you out of this dump and somewhere a bit more comfortable.”

Right. Because of course the talking teapot is here to rescue her. 

“Out?” Regina stares between the teapot and the candlestick, furrow between her brows. “But you heard what the Dark One said. _Once these doors close they will not open again._ ” 

The teapot scoffs. “Oh, that’s just her being silly.” 

“The mistress has a tendency to overreact.” The candlestick adds. “You know, all those shadows and theatrics. _I am the Dark One!_ ”

“And don’t get me started on the leather,” The teapot warns, raising a painted eyebrow. “Honestly, you get hit with one curse and you start dressing like a gothed out Empress Yzma. No offense to her, by the way. Lovely woman.” 

Regina just stares, completely lost. “But I thought you worked for the Dark One?”

“Oh, we do.” Lumiere assures her. “Household, in more ways than one. But we’ve known her for a long time and as her – _staff_ – we’re entitled to have a little fun with her. She’s just asking for it really. I mean, did you see her earlier?”

“No,” Regina states. “She was standing in the shadows.” 

The teapot rolls her eyes. “Of _course_ she was.” She nudges the candlestick with her spout. “She gets that from you, you know –”

“What?” Regina pulls a face. 

“Nothing!” Lumiere grins widely, elbowing the teapot pointedly. “Now come on. Let’s get you out of here.” 

Regina watches in an almost zen-like state of acceptance as the candlestick takes a big iron key from inside the teapot, swings up the bars with his candle holders and little legs, and starts working it into the lock. After a few seconds, it creaks open. 

Regina gapes after them as the candlestick swings himself to the ground and the teapot hops out into the landing, motioning for Regina to follow. Uncertain whether or not this is some kind of test, Regina hangs back, narrowing her eyes at her new friends. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea.” She says. “Won’t the Dark One be angry?” 

The teapot tuts. “Oh, don’t you worry about her, dear. She might throw a little tantrum but we’ll take the worst of it, I expect.” She sighs. 

“She won’t really care, though, as long as you don’t go running off.” Lumiere adds. “And anyway, she’ll thank us in the end.”

Regina frowns at that. “Thank you? For what?”

“Come along now!” The teapot calls, and that’s the end of that. 

Sighing, Regina takes one last glance around the cell and gives in. She was only going to waste away in there anyway. Wondering how the hell her life went downhill this quickly, she ducks through the open door after the ornaments, and follows them down the first flight of twisting stone stairs. 

__

Sure enough, in another part of the castle, not too long after this, the teapot and the candlestick are, as predicted, getting a telling off. 

“You did _what?_ ” The Dark One’s voice demands, exasperated. 

“We did what you would have done after a few days anyway.” 

“No, you went against my orders and released a prisoner. For all we know, she could be trying to escape right now! She could be gone. Or worse, she could have found the west wing.”

“She hasn’t found the west wing. We’ve got her confined to the apartments on the second floor. It’s very cosy, much nicer for a young girl like her than that _cage_ you had her in –”

“Stop that. You’re not going to guilt me about this. She wanted to stay here, she offered to take her father’s place.” 

“That only shows bravery and kindness in my books. Not traits to be rewarded with cold stone and –”

“She’s a _prisoner_ , Snow, not a guest.” 

“Please, dear, you know I hate it when you call me that –”

“Don’t make this about us. You released a prisoner without my permission –”

“And do you know why? Because we’re looking out for you as well as the rest of us.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

There is a long silence. 

“You’ve seen her. She’s beautiful, courageous, intelligent. Gave up everything for someone she loves. She could be the one –”

“She’s not the one. There isn’t a _one_. We all need to accept that.” 

“How do you know?” 

“How do _you_?”

“One dinner, Emma. That’s all I’m asking.” 

“Never call me that again and I might consider it.” 

“One dinner.” 

“Fine. One dinner. But after that, she stays in her room, and she never comes out.” 

__

Regina has definitely been in her room for good couple of hours by the time the knock the door comes.  
It takes her by surprise, to say the least. 

For that good couple of hours, our plucky young hero has been ripping up the lavish gowns she found in the wardrobe – an gilt mahogany piece by the name of Ruby, who keeps trying to give Regina a makeover – and knotting them together to make a rope she can climb down to freedom with. 

Bearing in mind Regina is five foot three and the most manual labour she’s done in her life is hauling laundry baskets down by the town fountain, this is quite an achievement. 

It’s taken a while, but she’s got the makeshift rope piled up around her on the marble floor now, and she’s worked up a fair sweat. Her cloak and boots have been abandoned in the corner. 

The ‘room’ of course, is in keeping with the general theme of the castle which is ‘so elaborate and over the top it’s actually starting to get annoying’ – the bed is huge and piled high with cushions, complete with twisty mahogany posts and thick satiny curtains; the deep-set window is stained in a pattern of roses; the vanity and wardrobe are matching and gilt and so big Regina actually has to stand on her tiptoes to see in one of the mirrors. But again, this may just be Regina being as vertically challenged as she is. (Best not to point this out to her if you value your life.) 

There is a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. 

Anyway, Regina’s just running out of dresses to tear up, and is just starting to eye the pretty silk bedsheets when the knock comes. 

It’s just one sharp rap on the door, but it sends a jolt through Regina’s stomach. 

She jumps up instinctively, trying to push the pile of mismatched rope out of her way. She knows it’s probably just the candlestick or the teapot, or maybe a stray dinner plate since apparently everything in this damn castle can talk, but she can’t help the way she tenses. 

She clears her throat, glancing at the closed door and pushing the pile of tattered cloth closer to the bed. “Yes?” Regina demands, pushing. Maybe she can get it hidden under the bed. Maybe nobody will notice.

“Open the door,” A familiar flat voice calls. 

_Damn it_. 

Regina swallows hard, mind immediately working two times faster. Of _course_ it’s the god damned Dark One. “Why should I?” She calls back, hastily shoving length after length of cloth under the bed. “This is my prison, isn’t it?”

“This is my castle, I own it.” The Dark One counters. “You have three seconds to open this door before I do.” 

_Ugh_. Rolling her eyes at the Dark One’s ridiculous threats, Regina throws the last of her rope under the bed as best she can and scrambles to her feet. She brushes her skirts down and takes a second to catch her breath before she opens the door. 

Out in the hallway, the light is dim and flicker, and Regina has to restrain herself from sighing when she sees the figure leaning against the wall, again, cloaked in darkness. _Really? Again?_ Regina thinks. _No creativity_. The ornaments, apparently, were right. 

Regina keeps the door nearly closed behind her, just in case her work isn’t completely hidden. She folds her arms tight over her chest and raises her chin. “What do you want, Dark One?” 

“Dinner.” The Dark One states. “You’re to dine with me tonight, and only tonight. I suggest you take the offer while it still stands.” 

“Seriously?” Regina can’t help but sigh then, face twisting into an incredulous, scathing scowl. “You take me prisoner because my father picked a _flower_ , sent a _candlestick_ and his bone-china girlfriend to lock me up here and now you want to date me?” She shakes her head. “No. Not happening.”

“I don’t want to _date_ you,” The Dark One remarks. If this was anyone else, Regina might be a bit offended at the disgust in her voice. “That’s very presumptuous of you. And arrogant.” She pauses, and when she speaks again, her voice is more firm. “Whatever, you’re having dinner with me. Now.” 

Regina refuses to back down. “You’re not a very good villain, are you?”

“Excuse me?” 

She raises a challenging eyebrow. “What kind of evil warlock uses the word whatever?” 

“Evil warlock?” The Dark One repeats, low and deadly. 

_Oh good lord_ , Regina thinks, because she may actually have a death wish (although she is actually onto something here). _How does_ that _offend her?_

The candles in he hallway flicker, the shadows shift, and before Regina can even lift an eyebrow her captor is striding harshly forward, into the light. For a second, fear flashes through her. Her breath catches in her throat and she braces herself for the worst as the light reveals – 

_Oh._

Regina stares, brow creased in a frown as she studies this supposed beast. _Huh_. She tilts her head this way and that, as if it might make some difference, but the fact of the matter still stands. She can’t help but be almost disappointed. 

The Dark One, frankly, looks a bit shit. 

Standing imposingly in the lamplight, is a woman a good few inches taller than Regina (this is not that noteworthy or impressive, but Regina’s only little. Let her have her moment.) and that’s about it. She’s clad neck to toe in black leather, and her bone-white hair is pulled off her pale face in a tight bun. Said face is smeared with what looks like body glitter. 

Suffice to say, Regina is not impressed. 

“Why are you dressed like that?” She remarks, before she can think.

This is clearly not the response the Dark One was expecting. Pale, near-invisible brows draw together in confusion and she looks down at herself. “What?”

“You look like an emo pirate threw up on you.” Regina states. 

“That doesn’t even make any sense.” 

“Okay, fine, whatever,” Regina mutters, rolling her eyes. Despite the annoyance twinging under her skin, her heart is still beating fast and she reminds herself this woman is dangerous. “But there’s no way in hell I’m having a meal with you.” 

“Watch yourself,” The Dark One warns, voice dark. Her eyes – a crackling, electric green – widen dangerously. “You will do as I say.” 

“I will _not_ ,” Regina remarks. She stares at the creature for a second, incredulous. Her anger is rising, flicking up from a coil in her stomach like a snake. “You imprisoned a frail old man for a crime that didn’t cost you a penny, you’re keeping me prisoner here for no reason other than your own selfishness and pride!” She swallows hard, forcing herself to stay brave. “I don’t even want to look at you, Dark One. Let alone be near you.” 

“Fine,” The Dark One snarls. “Starve if you like. It’s nothing to me.” 

And in a whirl of trailing black cloth and white sparkles, she’s gone, and Regina is left alone, shivering in the silent hallway of a near-empty castle, mind racing to plan her escape. 

__

As it turns out, Regina’s plans to carry on work on her rope that night were foiled. 

The teapot and the candlestick make a return, offering her dinner with them instead. Part of her wants to refuse and just keep working until she can get the hell out of here, but she hasn’t eaten all day, and she’s starting to feel light headed. 

So, resigned, she kicks the rope further under the bed and follows the mismatched couple out into the hallway, down the grand stairs to a small dining room near to the kitchens. They assure her the Dark One doesn’t come down this way. 

So Regina eats with them, and she can’t help but smile at some of their antics, however annoyed it makes her at herself afterwards. 

She goes to sleep that night in a lavish featherbed, in a room bigger than her whole house back home. It’s comfortable, and it’s warm, but she can’t sleep, because no mater how good the food is, how soft the sheets are, or how kind the furniture is, Regina can’t _ever_ forget, not for one second, that she is a prisoner here. 

__

As night falls fast and the castle falls into silence, the woman who had once been Emma Swan sits up at her window and watches the moonlight on the gardens. 

A few fat white snowflakes drift down silently over the overgrown hedges and ancient statues, but they melt when they touch the stone windowsill. It’s been a strange day, one she won’t likely forget in a while. Part of her wonders if she should be happy about that, after decades of uniform sameness. She stares out at the star-swollen sky, knuckles absently brushing over the window pane. In the glass, she can faintly see her own reflection. She tries her best not to look. 

Sighing, the Dark One pulls herself away from the window and settles into bed, trying not to think about the curse, or her parents, or the irritating and irritatingly beautiful woman plotting escape the other side of the palace.

In a dark crumbling corner of the castle’s west wing, another petal falls from a dying rose.


End file.
